


Aroma

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lady Belle is determined in fulfilling her duties and a pleasure to observe, but a chef she is not.  So when the smell from her latest attempt at mastering the culinary arts reaches him as he sits at his wheel, he is confused.  The aroma is actually… appealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aroma

**Author's Note:**

> Dark Castle fic. Written for LJ's 1_million_words community for their alphabet challenge, for the letter A.

Taking the girl was one of his better deals. The Dark Castle has never sparkled so; his leathers have not been so supple in half a century. However, instructing her that one of her duties was to bring his meals was… perhaps not the best idea. Since her arrival at the castle he has partaken of soup that tastes like muddy rainwater; stew that smells of the offal found in the trenches outside military encampments; teacakes with consistency that would break a tooth. 

He'd think she was trying to poison him were it not for the hopefully anxious expression she wears every time she set a new vile concoction at the head of the table. 

The Lady Belle is determined in fulfilling her duties and a pleasure to observe, but a chef she is not. So when the smell from her latest attempt at mastering the culinary arts reaches him as he sits at his wheel, he is confused.

The aroma is actually… appealing. 

It takes but a thought to whisk himself to the kitchen. He had intended to stride into the room immediately upon arrival, but finds himself instead hesitating in the stone archway to watch Belle as she moves busily around the room, wiping down the table until it shines and then standing with her hands on her hips, studying the resulting gleam with a look of satisfaction. He takes that opportunity to sidle up behind her, holds himself still and silent until she turns.

"Oh!" A pale and delicate hand flutters at her chest as she takes a stumbling step backward, nearly tripping over the hem of her golden gown. "Rumplestiltskin! You startled me," she breathes out. "What are you doing here?"

"It is _my_ kitchen, dearie."

"Yes, of course," she says, "but you've never… " 

She bites at her lip and glances around at the gleaming pots hanging from their hooks, the fire burning steadily in the hearth. He follows her gaze, notes the tiny planters with their sprigs of jasmine, thyme, and sage lined up on the shelf below the window, the sprays of holly twined through the latticework. His caretaker has carved out a little niche of comfort for herself in his large and draughty kitchen, and now wrings her hands and worries, perhaps, that he will disapprove.

"Was there something you… wanted?"

Rumplestiltskin blinks, pulls himself away from his study of the small changes she has wrought in his kitchen. "Merely checking up on you," he says. "Wouldn't do to let the caretaker run amok, would it?"

"No… of course not," she says hesitantly. 

He turns away from her, notes the way her spine stiffens and she almost holds her breath when he approaches the planters. Yes, she is afraid that he will make her get rid of her tiny comforts. He runs a black-tipped nail over the dainty flowers of the jasmine plant before spinning toward her and pointing a single finger deliberately at the table. "And what," he says, "is that?"

Belle starts, but follows his gaze to the loaf of bread on the platter before lifting her chin. "I'm trying something different today," she says. "I know that my previous attempts at cooking haven't been as successful as they could be—"

Rumplestiltskin restrains his reply to a single snort.

"—so I thought I should try something a little more simple," Belle continues resolutely. "I watched our cook bake bread many times, and it didn't seem too complicated." She takes a step toward the table and cocks her head, and Rumplestiltskin holds himself still so as not to squirm under her scrutiny. Then she smiles, a simple upturning of the corners of her mouth as the tension abruptly fades from her body. "It smells good, doesn't it?"

"The aroma is… not unpleasant," he concedes.

"You like it," she insists, as her smile grows larger and warms her eyes. 

Somehow he had not noticed how very blue her eyes are, as clear and pure as the waters of the crystal lake in Agrabah. Or the plump ripeness of her lips when she smiles, bringing to mind the sweet red berries of the holly on the hearth. Or the way the firelight plays in her hair, turning what was chestnut into a fire of red and gold and brown. 

His fingers twitch when he realizes he's been staring at his little maid, and he reaches past her to conceal the gesture. "Perhaps," he says, "but I shall have to try it to—"

"It's not ready yet," Belle interrupts, stepping in front of him to block his path. "It's still cooling!"

If it never occurs to her that he could easily turn her into a toad for daring to hinder the Dark One, then it never occurs to him either – at least, not until he has already vanished from before her and reappeared at the other side of the table. By the time she has huffed out a breath and spun toward him, Rumplestiltskin has already tugged off a hank of the warm bread and brought it to his nose. The scent is light and earthy with just a hint of sweetness, and it is only when he pops the bread into his mouth that he realizes she has baked it with finely chopped berries. 

It is divine.

She rounds the table to stand at his side, but whatever protest she was going to make is stilled by the expression she sees on his face. "You _do_ like it," she says smugly. 

He swallows before flicking his fingers toward her. "Arrogance does not become you."

She only laughs, leans her hip against the table. "I told you I would improve."

He wrinkles his nose. He has unfortunately memorized the scent and flavor of every loathsome meal she has put on his table, and there has never once been a promise of improvement, nor a hint that the next repast would be less odious than the last.

"You said no such thing," he says as he reaches to pull a second hunk from the warming bread. But she is quicker than he imagines, and has snatched the loaf away from his grasping hand before he can close his fingers around the prize. "It's for our dinner!" she protests.

He could simply magic it from her arms, but he wiggles his fingers instead. "I'll have it now."

"Rumplestiltskin!"

"My kitchen," he points out. "My ingredients. My bread."

"My baking skills," she counters. She tilts her head to the side and considers him again. "I'll make you a deal."

"Careful, dearie."

"You may have this loaf and I shall even bake you another tomorrow, and once a week thereafter," she says. "If you agree to never make fun of my cooking again."

Rumplestiltskin narrows his eyes. It's true that he's not been stingy with his criticisms of her cooking, though perhaps that too has lessened somewhat since the first days that she came to the castle. Then, he reveled in seeing her lower lip tremble as she blinked to hold back her tears; now, he often hastily gulps down whatever she offers and smiles wanly before sending her on her way, then quickly pops to his tower to whip up a potion to counteract any ill effects he may endure from ingesting her rock-hard potatoes or runny eggs. And even in those early days she always mastered herself, lifting her chin and holding her back straight under his scathing critiques. He had thought that his petty quips had rolled off her like water, but perhaps they stung more than she revealed. And he must admit that he much prefers the impish grin that she's wearing now to the frowns and downcast eyes. He'll be giving up little in agreeing to hold his tongue.

"Deal," he says quickly.

She jerks when the loaf disappears from her arms to reappear seconds later in his grasp. "I would have handed it to you, you know," she grumbles.

"Mind that you keep your side of the bargain," he answers. He tucks the loaf under his arm and turns to go, then stops to regard her. "And there are other herbs growing wild in the east garden," he adds, waving his fingers at the windowsill. "For your little pots."

He watches her eyes widen before she turns to smile at him, and holds that image in his mind as he whisks himself to the dining table. Another quick flourish of his hand and the table is set with plate and knife, freshly churned butter and a cup of mint tea. He cuts two slices of thick bread, then steeples his hands and thinks for a moment before conjuring a second plate and cup, another chair, and adding two more slices. Another twitch of his fingers before he can change his mind and the Lady Belle is stumbling to a sudden stop in front of the table, her pretty eyes blinking rapidly and her hand again fluttering at her chest until she gets her bearings.

"Care to join me, dearie?" he asks.

She shakes her head at him ruefully, but still curtsies before taking her place at the table. "I'd be delighted, sir," she says with a laugh.

Yes, dealing for the Lady Belle was definitely one of his best ideas.


End file.
